First Breath
by Romann
Summary: Loneliness and shared slumber are an odd combination.


WARNING: Someone is kissed in his sleep by someone who is _not_ his partner. If this is too far into dub-con/potentially triggery for you, please proceed with caution.

Note: This was written for the Kissing Meme and started as a snippet of a much longer fic that I meant to have finished ages ago - which is why the context is mostly unexplained. At this point of writing, the kiss doesn't look like it'll be included in the final fic (not without much editing and reshaping, at least), as the plot is moving in a slightly different direction, so... well, here's the kiss. The plot will hopefully get the hint and follow at some point.

-x-

The whiff of tobacco slithered up his nostrils, clearing such a welcome path into his body that Lestrade could have hummed in contentment. For a mysterious reason he didn't, instead twitching his nose greedily towards the scent. It was warm here. Mmm. A delicate puffing sound echoed in his head, punctuating an equally delicate drag. Another one followed it, and he found himself counting them, timing his breath to each _puff, _enveloping himself in the warmth of the sound.

Sherlock had good taste in cigarettes.

Inexplicably, a lancinating pain shot through his upper body when he tried to scoot closer to the heady, heady scent, which faded away. Somewhat roused by that unwelcome development, he instinctively lay as still as he could to quieten his spine, eyes fiercely shut, foggy mind grappling with his whereabouts and the sudden lack of warmth, and the immense need to have the fag he had forgotten about.

_Sherlock had been smoking_, he mused in the haze of semi-sleep, _all but injecting it directly into his veins_. Had it been Sherlock in his dream, blowing those perfectly formed drags into Lestrade's mouth, toying with him even in his sleep? The twat. Lestrade would chase him out of his subconscious. _After_ that fag.

A ripple ran up the back of his head, which felt heavy and uncomfortably moist, and it took him a moment to notice it was his own hair, still wet from the shower. _Brr, _he thought, ideas building in his head about the warm, dry bedding he seemed to be lacking.

_Puff._

The sound, too, was moist, albeit in a far pleasanter way, balmily weighing down just atop his upper lip. What a silly body part for his mind to focus on, he thought sedately, curling his nose very tentatively to recapture both scent and warmth—there they were—and sighing in sleepy bliss. His wet, cold neck creaked warningly as he tilted his head towards them, and it dragged at least part of him back into the land of consciousness. Something rustled underneath his cheek, shifting him into a decidedly uncomfortable position that wrung a grouchy rumble out of his throat.

_Puff_.

It was softer still now, muffled and directed at the underside of his neck. It breezed under the damp collar of his shirt, warm and heavy, and spread along his skin. It tickled. _Mmm. Brr_. He shifted slightly and the puffing faltered. Lestrade pressed his cheek in its general direction, missing it already, and found his face jabbed by something decidedly less enticing than a warm breath.

He pried one eye reluctantly open and, for one heart-pounding beat, he thought he was having a stroke, as his neck hurt, his head pounded and his entire field of vision had been taken up by a beige and black blot. Then, slowly, all the sources of pain shifted into one, rather sore, spot on the side of his neck and the blur in front of his eyes reshuffled into pale skin and dark hair, an unexpected yet non-hazardous landscape. Steadying himself, Lestrade tried to remember exactly who he was and why curly hair was crawling up his nose.

_Pu... uff..._

It wafted, hesitant and tickling and_ warm, _so soft and warm along his skin.

Oh.

_Sherlock had good taste in cigarettes,_ his mind reiterated groggily, deciding it was safe to remain asleep, chasing the warmth of that scent as it shrouded him, cloaked him into slumber. Comfort and company coming in tiny bursts from Sherlock's lips, of all people's... Ignoring the twinge in his neck, he nestled his cheek further down Sherlock's jaw line, down to where his chin was tucked into his chest. This was enough. Waiting for Sherlock's breath, only a hair's breadth away, and returning it with care, letting their mingled breaths dance silently around each other. Companionship. It tickled his lips, warm and heady. He shifted further into it, and the move made Sherlock's breath falter again, the very edge of a lower lip grazing the very corner of his mouth in readjustment.

Cushioning his cheek, Sherlock's own felt hollow, having gone from gaunt to starved in only a few weeks. Something about that notion sat heavily inside Lestrade, even as the tangy scent and the muffled breath lured his consciousness away. All the vulnerability Sherlock lacked, even in his sleep, seemed apparent to Lestrade all at once, all of it contained in that soft breath pushed through starved lips.

Sherlock sighed in his sleep, a sound so unlike his carefully crafted uniqueness that it sent a new, bitter weight into Lestrade. Suddenly, _suddenly_, returning the breath wasn't quite enough. Loneliness and an odd mix of sorrow and wanting churned inside him, and he tilted his head the infinitesimal amount required to close the minuscule gap between their mouths. Whether to share in any surfacing sighs or to stifle them, he didn't know; it merely felt right, in his hazy dream state, to press his lips to Sherlock's, just once. He didn't know why he was surprised to find them flaky and chapped, considering the wrecked state of the man—immaculately groomed Sherlock had steered well clear of Lestrade's flat this evening, had not been seen for a while. He retreated a millimetre, wet mouth crackling against dry, and pressed in again, remembering to part his lips to inhale Sherlock's breath. It was still warm, still heady, in verged a bit on intoxicating, really, and he pressed their mouths together again, lingering so that he could taste that breath, feel it glide into him, be taken away again. His head throbbed and his neck, precariously draped across the edge of the sofa, strongly disapproved of it all, but he heeded neither. Sherlock's sticky lower lip, caught between his, had curled into a petulant moue that was at once so typical of him and so helplessly wrenching that he could not help but admire it for a moment, just a moment, before lowering his mouth to it. A small sound that could only be accurately described as a simper left Sherlock's mouth, promptly falling into his, and this, _this_ might be enough. Against even his slumbering instincts, his arm inched upwards, beginning to draw a long circle around Sherlock's sleeping head—

_What was he doing?_

He managed to stifle all but one grunted swear word as he pulled away sharply and his neck twisted in agony. He was well awake now, all throbbing head and abused muscles, crouched beside the sofa where Sherlock...

... slept...

Tearing his eyes away from the mouth, _the wet, swollen lips that had felt so dry at first, _ he found himself staring directly into Sherlock's eyes, _Sherlock's exhausted, swollen eyes that had closed as soon as his head touched the sofa, trusting Lestrade because there was no-one else to trust..._

A long time seemed to elapse as he waited, heart pounding, for the cogs to start whirring in Sherlock's brain. Not for an instant of that veritable eternity did Sherlock's gaze waver from his. Foggy with sleepiness yet sober already, calculating—his eyes looked almost inhuman to Lestrade's addled brain. For all the – often dangerous - absurdity of their common history, he didn't recall ever having felt wary of Sherlock until now.

The small, ever-present crease between those eyes narrowed. The cog had clicked into place.

Which one, Lestrade did not want to know.

THE (provisional) END


End file.
